


this world is for the dreamers

by avems



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Implied Reincarnation, M/M, Modern Setting, fragmented format, honestly i don't know if time is real anymore, orchestra AU, y’all have no fucking idea how much i had to workshop this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28304304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avems/pseuds/avems
Summary: There's substance in lives long since past, but Merlin and Lancelot don't know this yet.
Relationships: Lancelot/Merlin (Merlin)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 37





	this world is for the dreamers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphicfreya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicfreya/gifts).



At first, Merlin thinks it's a joke that there's a violinist named Lancelot performing at a nearby concert hall. 

He has a job at a local bookstore, and his coworker, Will, happened to bring it up in passing. 

"Lancelot," Merlin repeats, like it's _meant_ to be a joke. But Will isn't laughing, and is instead studying Merlin with a mildly pensive expression. Merlin continues, "Lancelot, like - like the Arthurian bloke who was a Knight." 

"This Lancelot isn't quite as exciting, but his skills alone are pretty legendary." Will opens his laptop and taps out a quick Google search. Then, he turns the screen to the edge of the table, where Merlin narrows his eyes to look at it from his vantage point on the floor. 

Google has graciously decided to proceed to spit out violin soloist Lancelot’s birthdate, hometown, various news columns about him, and inform Merlin about when he was first nominated for a musical award. 

"Ah," Merlin said, at last, just a little bit miffed. He fell back again into the floor. "He's real?"

"He's _real_ ," Will confirmed, gleefully. "You ought to meet him. Jumpstart that connection of having the most medieval names ever given in the last century." 

Merlin’s place on the floor stiffened. Oh. _That's what this was about._ "I'm suddenly not interested." 

"Is it not the most valuable form of solidarity?" 

"We're not having this conversation."

"Ah, but we, unfortunately, already are. Your ticket's long since gone through the post, and it should be arriving soon. Have some fun, for Christ's sake."

Merlin groaned, pressing his palms into his temples. "Will. It must be known to this cold, wretched world that I despise you." 

"Merlin. _Good Lord._ I love you, too."

  
  


::

  
  


When he went back to his flat, the concert ticket from Will was, indeed, delivered with the most recent batch of mail. Merlin sighed. Tickets were expensive and, despite how disinterested Merlin was at the prospect of having to go, it would be a waste to simply not use it. After all, Will was right - Merlin didn't have much else to do anyway.

With a tired drag of the hands, Merlin undid his shoes and removed his jacket. Then, he Googled " _preparing for a concert checklist."_

::

  
  


Merlin doesn't know much about concert etiquette. Google ends up being his primary consultant to dressing and notable items (like when to clap, when to not), and he arrives to take his seat early. 

The concert hall has a large circular stage, with darkened burgundy curtains trailing along its edges. 

Other patrons, dressed in modern gowns and pressed blazers, took their seats around him. There was a palpable buzz as Lancelot's name fell from countless mouths excitedly, quickly, and quietly, like light spring rain. 

_Lancelot, an esteemed early graduate from the Royal College of Music. Lancelot, one of the best Tchaikovsky interpreters of the century. Lancelot, whose studio recordings of the Bruch Concerto struck gold..._

_Lancelot. Lancelot. Lancelot._

Merlin figures that it ought to annoy him after a while. But it doesn't. Something about Lancelot tugs at him gently, despite them never having met. 

If anything, Merlin's fascinated, but damned if he knows why. 

"It's the name," Merlin decides dryly to himself. He's staring down at the program, where Lancelot's name is glossy and curved alongside _Bruch Violin Concerto,_ and sarcastically imagines the rest of the Round Table from the legends listed as the orchestra ensemble. "It's the name." 

  
  


::

A dark-haired man clad in a formal black suit walks into his designated place amid the orchestra near the front, and raises his violin to his shoulder. 

As the orchestra sang its low, melancholy introduction, Lancelot notched his instrument beneath his jaw and brought his bow down upon strings. 

A sweet, sincere sound cut through the air, slow like honey, before quickening with each passing second.

The orchestra swelled like grapes in the summer, and Lancelot was their Dionysus. With every stroke, the musicians fell under his cloak of sound, following each careful measure, each passionate climb upwards and loyally trailing back downwards, as vines did to the preening guiding tone of a god. 

_Lancelot,_ Merlin finds himself thinking, eyes wide. _Lancelot._ Just as entranced as every other person, slack-jawed in their seats.

_Lancelot, Lancelot, Lancelot.  
_

There’s something about Lancelot’s playing that makes Merlin want to cry. Not the awful sort where he’s ticking on his seat, waiting for the orchestra seats to clear out, and fall into step with the shuffling hoard of glittering fish adorned in satin and ammonite. 

It’s coaxing him sweetly to leave his seat, to drift closer to the strings. To forget there’s a program in his hand and that there’s an audience and not just him, not only Merlin, feeling the lunar pull of Lancelot and his violin. 

Merlin did not dare look away from the feast for the ears being sown upon the grand stage. 

He finds he is not merely transfixed because of “the name.” 

  
  


::

  
  


The concerto ends with approving applause from the stunned patrons, and Lancelot bringing his violin back into his arms. He holds it against his chest like a holy vessel, safe, bow underneath a hanging finger. 

Lancelot smiles thinly and takes a bow. Applause echoes again, and somebody throws carnations onto the stage. Another person yells his name. 

Merlin’s throat feels hoarse later; he suspects it might have been him. 

  
  


::

  
  


Merlin finds himself standing at the stage door, where Lancelot is idly strumming his violin's strings like a small, intimately carved guitar. His long bow is still swinging from a hooked pinky.

Merlin isn't sure if this is standard or not, to talk to a performer once they’re done, so he clears his throat, speaking in a rush. "Hello. Um, Lancelot, is it? You playing tonight was...it was..." He feels himself redden. Words are damned hard to conjure. "You were fantastic." _Fantastic doesn't even begin to cover it._

Lancelot’s still strumming his violin. He doesn’t look up, and doesn't give any indication that he's heard.

Merlin's stomach drops. “Oh.” He unconsciously steps back, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m...I can go.” 

Lancelot meets his eyes. Merlin’s taken aback by a brilliant shade of dark brown before noticing a wetness hanging onto his lashes. 

Lancelot sniffs. 

"Sorry," he says, and his voice is much lower than Merlin was expecting. It’s rough, but more so from fatigue than anything else. 

“You played beautifully,” Merlin says. He means it. 

And Lancelot’s face falls. 

“Thank you,” he says, a forced smile pinching his face inwards. He keeps his eyes cast to the ground, and departs without another word. There’s a room down the way with his name on it in a careful typecast; it opens, admits him, and politely slams shut as a manager with a tag and cameraman rush inside. 

Merlin blinks. The hallway is empty. 

He tries to ignore the sick ache in his chest, of something awful and familiar that feels a lot like getting socked in the stomach, and tries to forget he’d said anything at all. 

  
  


::

  
  


Lancelot lets the door click shut behind him, and steadies himself outside.

There's an icy rush of air that enfolds him serenely as if he's walked through an arctic veil. 

It feels familiar. The man...he'd also seemed familiar somehow. 

_Strange_ , is all he thinks when his manager greets him and rushes him off to the hotel suite. He tells his manager about the encounter, and they just shake their head and tell him to get some sleep. There’s two more shows in Ireland before the tour ends. 

But, damned if he tries, Lancelot just can’t shake the feeling they know each other somehow. 

Strange, indeed. 

  
  


:: 

The day following his performance, Lancelot keeps his violin in its case, closed and shut on the suite table.

He thinks it’s strange, sometimes, the sensation that travels up his bow arm. A tingling warmth, like he’s meant to be holding something sturdier in his hand. Stronger. More metallic. 

As a child, he’d imagine a rapier, a sword. Something he could wield for the sake of his mother and father for protection. But his violin serves as his safeguard now, and that suffices just fine. He serves himself and a global stage that values tradition and innovation from a quiet seated place. 

All the world’s a stage, and Lancelot is another figurehead in its center. 

He’s not sure how he feels about it. 

He thinks it feels lonesome. 

  
  


:: 

  
  


The next two weeks usher in the first weeks of December. And for whatever reason, Lancelot and the strange brown haired man can’t stop running into each other. 

Lancelot is staying in a gorgeous Irish suite, but that doesn’t stop him from going sightseeing when he’s not practicing, or milling around through the city when he’s able. He does his own personal groceries, and tries to hold onto the menial warmth the thrill of being on tour gives him.

But everywhere he goes, the brown haired man seems to magically appear. They both happened to be in the same crisps aisle of the market, went to the same docks in the evenings to stroll, and had tickets to go to the same cinema on a gloomy Thursday night. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Lancelot sighs, ticket still in hand. Their tickets happened to be marked in the same cinema row, where credits are rolling, and they’re exactly one seat apart. Lancelot frowns. “What’s your name?” 

“Merlin,” the brown haired man says, and he looks a bit like he wants to cry. “I swear I’m not following you,” he adds defensively, “this is just...” 

“...another interesting chance encounter.” Lancelot smiles, chuckling at the name. “It’s fine. Really, it’s okay.” He shoves his cinema stub in his jacket pocket. 

“Lancelot. We’ve...well, we’ve met before.” 

Merlin laughs. 

“Yes,” he says. “I suppose we have.”

“Indeed.” A lofi mix has started to play through the theater box as the cinema workers come through to sweep up fallen popcorn and clean the seats. Lancelot casts his eyes downward. “I just wanted to say that, I recognized you from my performance. Your words were honestly quite touching, and I’m honored that you thought that way of me, regardless of my breakdown.” 

“Rubbish,” Merlin says, incredulous, “it’s alright. We all have our bad moments.” 

“It was rather unprofessional, though, wasn’t it?” 

“No, no. Not at all.” Merlin is standing up now, and walking down past the other seats. His voice carries all the way back up to Lancelot. “If I’d given a performance like that, I’d cry, too, from sheer awe.” A pause. Then, “See you around.” 

  
  


::

In the days that follow, they are no longer surprised to see each other during errand runs (or for that matter, snack runs or actual exercising runs). They haven’t spoken since they saw each other at the cinema, and have only acknowledged each other through tiny waves and polite smiles. 

::

  
  


It’s Friday morning. Once again, Merlin has run into Lancelot, this time on the train and with no violin. He gives Lancelot the finger. Lancelot grins. 

This is their seventeenth encounter since the concert. 

They set off at the same train stop, and happen to like the same sandwich restaurant that just so happens to fall in the general direction a few paces to the left. Merlin orders a chip butty, and Lancelot smoked salmon. There’s an empty booth in the corner they turn to occupy together, the food between them. 

Their odd silence is broken, and Merlin learns that Lancelot grew up parentless, living with his Aunt Annis following a fire that killed his parents. He learns that Lancelot was a violin prodigy, playing Paganini Caprices at the age of thirteen, and getting an elite music education in Prague at seventeen.

Merlin learns that Lancelot fiddles with his fingers when he’s nervous but loosens up around Merlin. And, in turn, Lancelot finds that Merlin is self-published, works at a bookstore, is prospectively lonely, and has an unhealthy fixation with his scarf collection. 

But, midway through, Merlin clears his throat, resting his arms on the booth. Lancelot pauses. 

“I just have a question," Merlin says carefully. 

Lancelot picks up crisp with an idle hand, before tossing it into his mouth. “Mm-hmm?” 

Merlin is fiddling with the edge of his phone case. “Your name…” 

Lancelot catches on. “Ah.” 

“...how’d you get it?” 

“Oh.” There’s another weighted pause. It’s not meant to be a serious question; Merlin’s tone is as light as air, and he doesn’t mean any harm with his bright eyes and clever smile. 

But, with names come origin stories, and Lancelot has his parents, who are charred and wasting away in a southern grave. He half shrugs. “Well, about where you'd expect, you know. My parents,” Lancelot says, forming the words around his crisps. 

Merlin nods. "Right. That's typical." He rakes a hand through his hair. "Same with me. My mum claimed that it was because she liked the bird so much but, with a name like Merlin, people always imagine the doddery old man who turned into a tree first." 

“Interesting correlation, to say the least.”   
  
“Mm. You understand the struggle, I’m sure,” Merlin says. 

“Yes,” Lancelot responds. While biting into a crisp, he seems to recall something unsavory, and frowns. “It’s actually why you saw me crying that first night I performed.” He sighs. “It was the anniversary of my parent’s death, and I felt like I’d failed them with a poor performance.”

All Lancelot’s life, the only thing his mother had ever told him to do was to try his best. Be proud of his work. (Often, it was a difficult task. He recalled the night he’d first seen Merlin eerily well: there’d been a messed up string crossing. Imperfections that no one else but Lancelot picked up on.)

Merlin was sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” he says, gently. “I had no idea. I never would’ve disturbed you had I known.”   
  


Lancelot smiles. “Well, on the contrary, I’m glad that you were there to say something. Otherwise, I have my doubts that we’d be talking right now otherwise.”   
  


“Huh. Do you...enjoy my company?”   
  


Lancelot’s dimples deepen into his cheeks. “Of course I do.”

  
::

He notices that Merlin's eyes flash gold whenever they're together for sustained periods of time. 

At first, he thinks it's just a trick of the light or the result of lacking sleep. But it happens, more and more frequently, and Merlin panics when Lancelot asks him about it. 

"Please," he begs, low, "don't tell anyone." 

They're at Lancelot's suite. Merlin is seated in a chair that's far too big for him, and Lancelot is seated on the bed facing him. 

He stands up, and places his hand on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin's already rushing to close his eyes, to cloak their shine, but it's too late. 

"It's our secret," is all Lancelot says. The copper glow shifts something soft in the background of his mind, and he offers a reassuring smile. "It's okay." 

"God, no, it's weird, it's..." _it's mine._

Lancelot lets his voice lower. "No, please. I promise, it's okay."

::

In confidence, Merlin tells Lancelot that he’d had the golden eyes his whole life. 

“The only people who know about them are my mum and Will. No one else spends enough time with me to even notice they’re there.” 

Comets glitter in the setting of Merlin’s iris, and Lancelot can’t help tracking their movement. “That’s a shame,” Lancelot says. “I think they look rather nice.” 

“Even if they make me look loony?” 

“Merlin. That in itself may actually be why they’re so incredibly endearing.” 

::

Days tick by, one by one, and Lancelot finds that he and Merlin share memories of people who never existed. 

The more time they spend together, the more the memories return, like snow from a mountain, melting into a familiar river and lake. 

They’re too vivid to be fake, too specific to be a coincidence.   
  
Merlin and Lancelot exchange them back and forth like currency, tossing around story after story that they’d sworn was just a delusional dream on either end. 

Names are conjured, unfurled from heaps of broken, fragmented pieces of abalone afterthought: Hunith, Balinor, Guinevere. Elyan, Percival, Leon. 

Arthur, Gwaine, and Camelot. 

Lancelot and Merlin bring up names, one by one, and are startled to shut their eyes and imagine the curve of familiar wrists, the sets of smiles that must be polished bone by now. The empty ache once each person was gone, by death or another means of detachment. 

Solace is found in shared dreams about Camelot and fantasy. In death, from another era, and flashing gold that catches against the Irish sky. 

Comfort is sought in the thought that maybe, just maybe, destiny is real.

::

But.   
  
It’s the last day Lancelot is due to perform on his tour. 

Merlin’s eyes have flashed gold five times in one day, and the memory flashes have grown exponentially stronger. 

“We were friends,” Merlin says, trailing after him backstage. “In...whatever life we led before.”

Lancelot shrugs. “Well, that certainly makes sense.” 

“It does.” But Merlin rubs his temples, wincing. “Maybe it’s just me but, I feel like these images have been more and more clear recently. Sharp. But not in a high definition way, like in a bad way.”

Lancelot considers. 

He sees his violin and sees the future.

He sees Merlin and sees a life as aged as Irish cliffsides carved by the gnawing shore.

Merlin's eyes are blinking copper, like pennies and comets and movie reel tape.

The glow in Merlin's eyes intensifies, glinting against the dark walls.

"My mother, father, and...Druids, and _magic_ , Lancelot, I remember the feeling of _magic_ coursing through me every moment of every day." 

Lancelot's nodding rapidly. Every word seems to be falling in a downwards trajectory, finding its place in a jumbled, dislodged cardboard box of Lancelot's chest. He closes his eyes and imagines a familiar weight of a sword where his violin bow is supposed to be. 

He opens his eyes; there's a violin bow in his hands. And Merlin is crumbling at his feet. 

"Hey," Lancelot says softly, "hey." He gently deposits violin and bow into the hands of a bewildered stage assistant and kneels next to Merlin. 

"Here." Merlin's head is still bowed, almost touching the ground from where he's crouching, and he looks up. Lancelot's hand pauses right in front of him, imploring. 

He tries to speak, and Lancelot just shakes his head. "It's okay. Just, " he takes Merlin's clenched fist into his palm, "just listen to me. I'll be free later. No more shows, this is my last stop. We can talk about this later." 

"But," Merlin hiccups, "it's my fault." 

"Your fault?" Lancelot's brows draw in. "You didn't do anything wrong." 

"Veil," is all Merlin breathes. "The..." 

And suddenly, Lancelot remembers. An icy embrace of dead air, and prickling shrieks sinking into his skin. Lancelot feels a shudder chill his spine. 

A voice that sounds like his but feels older, like aged wine and sinking roots of trees, speaks forth from his mind _. "Our decision,"_ it whispers. _"Our choice."_

Lancelot swallows. "Merlin.” He takes a deep breath. "I don't blame you. Okay?" He sees emptiness, and rattling voices against the rim of the night sky. But no amount of internal sifting brings up any bitterness towards a young wizard. "It wasn't your fault." 

"It was," Merlin croaks. "I should've gone instead." 

"No." Lancelot's voice is surprisingly strong. "Merlin, I decided to leave by myself. It does no good to suddenly place yourself with the burdens of a life that wasn't even entirely you." 

"It was me, wasn't it?" Merlin's fingers roam across his cheekbones, ghosting over each feature like he'd never seen them before. "Same face, same mind, just a different period." 

"Different person," Lancelot reminds him gently. "Merlin. Good lord, you're many, many things, but right now, you're not..." He almost laughs. "Do you want me to say it?" 

"This is ridiculous," Merlin sighs. 

"A bloody _wizard,_ " Lancelot says. He shakes Merlin's shoulders. "You - you shelve books for a living now. And you like it! And that's great!" 

"And you used to be a knight," Merlin reminds him. "But, you were also my friend, thousands of years ago, and I let you down." 

The audience began to clap for the orchestra, who were beginning to take their bows; the musicians who weren't part of the upcoming Bruch solo began to pick up their stands, instruments, and chairs, beginning to funnel through the sides of the stage. 

Lancelot felt sweat seep through his bowtie. The stagehand holding his Guarneri was starting to walk over to them, and he shook Merlin, one more time, harder. "Merlin. We have their memories, but this is - I mean, we're different people now." 

“Lance, I - “

“We're not a knight and wizard right now. We’ll discuss this more later. Okay?" 

"Lancelot!" a technician working the screens hissed, "you're on in a few minutes!" 

Merlin nods, quickly. "Okay." He turns to leave through the back door, but Lancelot slides his hands down Merlin’s arms, grasping his hands tightly before pulling away. 

"Just trust me. Hey." His dark eyes were eager. "You trust me, don't you?" 

Someone hurried past Lancelot and began to whisk him off into the other direction, pressing his violin into his hands. But Merlin raised a singular thumb in confirmation. 

Lancelot grimaced, and then relaxed. And that was enough.

::

The performance begins. 

Merlin shuts his eyes, feeling molten lava sear his eyelids, and he remembers, and remembers, and remembers.

He sees chainmail, and green pastures, and the glistening night sky. The rough feel of dragon scales beneath his calloused hands, and Lancelot asking him to be safe. 

_You trust me, don't you, warlock?_

_\- Obviously._

He sees Sir Lancelot, easy smile notched into place, with too much love to share, and breathes. 

He sees not much has changed. 

::

  
  


That evening, Lancelot plays the best Bruch he’s ever played in his life. 

The audience breaks into a thunderous applause, and he glances to the wings. 

Merlin watches him, arms crossed across his chest. He’s still anxious, which Lancelot observes from his bouncing knee, but, overall, alright. 

Merlin eyes are newly minted pennies. He smiles. For a moment, Lancelot feels like he’s home. 

He casts one final wave to the audience, and walks back to Merlin, arms outstretched. 

**Author's Note:**

> what's up gay people have a lovely holiday and also very special hello to m if she’s here, i hope you enjoyed 
> 
> (lots of love from: [@hawthorias](https://twitter.com/hawthorias))
> 
> [Gil Shaham Bruch Violin Concerto (Lancelot's Piece)](https://youtu.be/pqsfv8ROtrQ)


End file.
